


Death Spiral

by virdant



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Cannibalism, Crack Treated Seriously, Gen, M/M, Murder, competitive serial murdering, instead of competitive figure skating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:40:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24227482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/virdant/pseuds/virdant
Summary: During an abnormal snowstorm in April, Dr. Hannibal Lecter, the Chesapeake Ripper, shows up at Wolf Trap to coach Will Graham to the Grand Prix Finals of Serial Murder.Also known as yuri!!! on ice au
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 6
Kudos: 31





	Death Spiral

**Author's Note:**

> once upon a time somebody mentioned that they wanted a hannibal/yoi au and sometimes when you say things in my presence i show up about 4 years later with, not what you wanted, but what _i_ decided you wanted.
> 
> this is one of those situations.
> 
> a death spiral is an element in pairs skating; it is very beautiful and very cool and you can read the wikipedia article about it [here](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Death_spiral_\(figure_skating\)).

It was snowing, despite the fact that spring had arrived, it being April, when Will opened the door to let the dogs out and was greeted instead by Hannibal Lecter, the Chesapeake Ripper, on his doorstep.

“What,” he began.

“Will!” Hannibal exclaimed, delight in the minute twitch of his eyes. “From now on, I’m going to be your coach.”

Will stared blankly back. Beside him, Winston wagged his tail happily. Elle looked hopefully at Hannibal for treats. Buster sat on Hannibal’s foot. “What,” he said again.

Earlier this year, Hannibal Lecter had won the World Championship title for serial murder for the fifth year in a row. With how deep the field had grown in the years, serial murders popping up left and right like weeds, this was an achievement that few could boast. Winning the World Championships was already an achievement. Winning five years in a world was unprecedented. Speculation had been rife about whether or not Hannibal would continue on for another season, since he had shown no signs of flagging. But now, Hannibal was here.

“I saw your video, and I knew I had to come.”

“What video?”

“The one where you copied my latest murder. I was proud of that tableau. But your recreation was exquisite.”

“You ate Gideon’s kidney when he copied your tableau of the wound man.”

Hannibal waved a hand in the air dismissively. “Semantics.”

Will wasn’t sure how to respond. Hannibal Lecter, here? Will had been somehow thrust into the spotlight as a Copycat Killer, and had somehow made his way to the Grand Prix Finals of Serial Murdering, only to place sixth place out of six. There was no reason for Hannibal Lecter, for the Chesapeake Ripper, to be here, in Wolf Trap of all places, instead of his hometown of Baltimore.

“Yes,” Hannibal said, and with a familiar flair for dramatics that showed in all of his murder tableaus, Hannibal said, “Will Graham, I’m here to be your coach.”

* * *

Serial Murder was an art form.

It had evolved throughout the years; there had always been an adherence to the technical aspects, a pattern set that murderers were expected to follow. But it had grown and grown, and it was no longer enough to murder according to a set pattern, but now there was technique and there was art, and as always, there were judges who watched and critiqued.

And Hannibal Lecter was the best of them.

Oh, there were others; plenty of others, who laid out their tableaus and displayed their work. But Hannibal had won the Grand Prix Finals for five years in a row, had won the World Championships just as many times, and had an Olympic Medal to boot. He was, truly, the best among the best.

And now he was here, in Wolf Trap. Wolf Trap wasn’t that far from Baltimore—far enough that there was little chance of Will running into Hannibal at the grocery store, but close enough that their tableaus could overlap—but still, why would Hannibal come out here, to Wolf Trap, when he was…

When he was Dr. Hannibal Lecter, premier serial murderer.

“I’m planning on retiring,” Will tried, as Hannibal swept into his house—the dogs followed—and began to plate what appeared to be a sausage scramble onto Will’s plates. “I don’t need a coach.”

Hannibal said, placidly, “You aren’t retiring.”

“I don’t think you get to decide my serial murder career trajectory.”

“Of course not,” Hannibal was gracious. “But with such talent and skill, it would truly be a waste.”

Will’s eyes narrowed, before he turned to the sausage scramble that had been dished before him. He took a bite. It was unfairly good, especially considering that this was Hannibal Lecter who was well known for his murder and cannibalism. “I don’t know if you realized, but I was last at the Grand Prix Finals.”

And then he hadn’t made it to Worlds, let along Four Continents.

Hannibal’s response, which was elegantly dramatic, was to say, “And I saw your video, and I see clearly your potential.” He paused, and then leaned forward. “Let me bring it out.”

And maybe Will was still hungover from that whiskey earlier, or maybe he was just caught up in Hannibal’s utter faith, but whatever the reason, Will swallowed the last bite of breakfast and said, “Okay. Fine. Yeah.”

* * *

There were several components to a Tableau.

First, the size. Each contestant prepared a short program and a long program, to different requirements. The requirements were, of course, illustrated in the International Serial Murder Union’s guidelines, which all serial murderers were expected to conform to if they wished to murder at the competitive level.

(The requirements had changed, of course, and continued to change through yearly review. But the overall expectations of the ISMU had evolved from the previous 6.0 system, where points were awarded from 0 to 6, and compulsory murders were required. Now, all tableaus followed the International Judging System.)

Then, the technical components. There were techniques that all murderers were expected to know, ranging from stabbing to slicing to drugs to suffocation. There were various ways to murder, of course, and to best recognize the skill of each technique, judges would study them and award grades of execution for how effectively they were performed.

Finally, the artistic components.

The artistic components.

Will was adept at murder; he had a range of techniques that he was capable of, and he performed them adequately. While he was not nearly as skilled at advanced techniques as Hannibal was, he could shoot to a perfectly acceptable grade of execution, and was adept at stabbing as well.

But, Hannibal decided, the artist components was where Will shone.

Especially in interpretation.

The dogs watched peacefully as Hannibal ran Will through drills. Will, brow pinched in what could either be a headache from a low-grade fever, or general antipathy towards Hannibal, followed along with minimal complaint. With each repetition, Will seemed to step into his own: swift and silent, effective and violent.

Will was not Hannibal, at all.

Hannibal watched as Will worked, and thought: he’s better.

* * *

The Grand Prix Final was not the only ISMU competition. There were the ISMU Challenger series, which included several traditional B international tournaments, which were sanctioned by the International Serial Murdering Union, but were considered less prestigious. There were junior international competitions for younger murderers in training. But there were four prestigious ISMU sanctioned competitions.

There were the European Championships (for those of European and Russian nationality), and Four Continents (for everybody else, even if that meant there would be competitors from more than four different continents). There was the World Championships, the culminating tournament of the season.

But before Worlds, before Four Continents, before Europeans, there was the Grand Prix season.

The invitational tournament invited top murderers from the previous season and pit them against each other. There were six individual events, and each competitor could only participate in two events. The top qualifying individuals were entered into the Grand Prix Final.

It was a very prestigious event.

Will was absolutely going to win it.

“How would you murder me, Will?” Hannibal asked. It was a topic that most people would turn from, but most people were not top serial murderer contenders for the World Championships.

“With my hands,” Will retorted. A fluffy dog pressed his nose into Will’s hand. Will patted the dog in response.

“Good.” Hannibal, as Will’s coach, approved. Will was showing a level of elegance and savagery that was sure to win him accolades among the judges. “Now, let’s continue.”

* * *

It wasn’t as if Will and Hannibal were the only serial murderers out there. There were plenty, all competing for prestige and money, but mostly prestige, since the prize money was minimal and most of it went into training fees and murder materials.

“Will Graham,” Matthew said as they arrived at the first of Will’s invitational tournaments, the Cup of China. “What a pleasant surprise.”

Will stared back. “Matthew,” he said, drily. He’d trained with Matthew before, back when Will had hopes and aspirations for success. Since he’d attempted to retire and return to Wolf Trap with his seven dogs, he had lost contact with Matthew Brown, who really drew his murders out longer than they needed to be.

Matthew didn’t attempt to say that he was surprised to see Will. The rosters for each invitational competition had been announced long enough ago that everybody knew who was competing in which tournament, and message threads had been active with see you soons for the past month or so already. He did lean forward and say, “I saw your programs,” with a leer, “Looking good there.”

Will stared impassively back; he’d done a domestic tournament and a B international tournament, and there were videos of his programs already. “I didn’t see yours.”

Matthew was undaunted. “Watch me this time.” He winked, dramatically, as he walked away.

Hannibal stepped up from where he had been in his own conversations. He watched Matthew leave with Will, before turning to Will. “Dinner?” he asked.

Will said, “Are you cooking?”

“It is in your best interest to maintain a rigorous diet,” Hannibal replied, which was really not a good response, but probably meant yes.

* * *

Hannibal was standing on the side of the tableau when Will finished, like all coaches did. He had been watching Will as he constructed his tableau, each meticulous step by meticulous step. Oh, it was still early in the season, but it was already so obvious what Will was showing, and his every move had been precise, deliberate, effective. Will’s eyes had been lidded as he worked, meticulously, and when he was finished, his eyes fluttered open, and they met Hannibal’s gaze.

Hannibal stared steadily back, his face placid but his eyes shimmering.

Will nodded, just once, and Hannibal inclined his head in return. Then Will was walking away, the precise lines of his tableau still etched for everybody to see, and when Will stepped by, Hannibal let his fingers press against Will’s.

Will’s fingers pressed back.

* * *

In the weeks before the Rostelecom Cup, Hannibal was quiet. Pensive. They worked, as was expected, Will the student, Hannibal the coach. In the time surrounding training, the dogs nosed their way into open palms, and Will spent time on long walks with the dogs as Hannibal stayed in the kitchen and cooked with a precise economy of movement that had won him five consecutive Grand Prix Finals.

Winston laid his head on Will’s knee as they ate—not to beg, just to press warmth and leave golden hairs across Will’s trousers. Will ran a hand down Winston’s skull, soft fur and sturdy bone. When he looked up, Hannibal was watching.

Hannibal pressed his fingertips to his fork and knife, and Will’s eyes saw: skin against steel, hands against tools, life and death and everything in-between.

Will didn’t say anything though, and neither did Hannibal.

* * *

Lithuania was not Russia, but Hannibal had always competed at the Rostelecom Cup. Perhaps it was its proximity—Moscow was not that far from Lithuania, all things considered—or perhaps it was the way Hannibal spoke Russian comfortably to reporters and fans alike. He had been popular in Russia.

The popularity buffeted at them as they checked into the hotel; Reporters wanted to hear about Dr. Hannibal Lecter’s evolution from competitor to coach, and specifically to Will’s coach. It didn’t matter that Hannibal had been located in Baltimore for the duration of his career, the Russian media wanted to know, and they were determined to find out.

Will slipped away as soon as he was able. He missed his dogs.

“Hi Will,” a familiar voice followed him. “Where are you going?”

Will didn’t need to turn to recognize the voice calling to him.

Abigail Hobbs.

Will said, “I didn’t know you were coming here.”

“You should pay more attention to press announcements,” Abigail replied.

“I never read what Freddie writes.”

Abigail laughed at that.

“You’re not a junior anymore,” Will finally said.

“I’m competing as a senior now,” Abigail confirmed. She’d trounced her way through the junior circuit last season. Will remembered seeing her do so. It had been terrifying. “And that means we’re competitors.”

He nodded.

“Regretting that you gave me that fishing kit?”

“No,” Will said. Her scarf had shifted as she talked, and it bared the scar on her throat. “No.”

Abigail looked at him, and then she smiled. “Good.”

* * *

Will met Abigail when he killed her father.

Murder wasn’t that novel of an experience; they did it all the time, that was what came of being competitive serial murderers. But Will hadn’t been competing or training when he ran across Abigail and her father, literally.

The Hobbs’ were a pairs team, competing together. They were good together, the two of them compatible in a way that belied their familial connection. But Abigail was growing older, and she had her eyes set on individual competition.

There had been a knife, and Will had a gun, and there had been eight shots more than necessary and then Abigail was lying in a pool of her own blood, and Hannibal had stepped forward and reached into the wound with precision and pinched the artery closed with his fingers even as paramedics were called.

It had been here, Will thought. Here, at the Rostelecom Cup, two years ago. And Hannibal had looked up and met Will’s gaze and there had been something in them.

And here they were again.

Abigail was a huntress, stalking her prey. She had always been good, when she was one half of a pair, but the years had made her better, and growth had given her independence, and it showed in her tableau, not a single piece gone to waste.

But Hannibal’s eyes had met his, and Will stepped forward and let himself move.

* * *

The top six would go to the Grand Prix Final.

Hannibal was unsurprised at the result.

Will was.

* * *

The Grand Prix Final was in Florence this year; its location varied year by year, different countries in the ISMU vying for the right to host. Will and Hannibal arrived early enough to walk the limits of the arena and practice, and then they went back to the hotel room they’re sharing.

Will’s eyes were dark and shadowed.

Hannibal stood at the window and said, “I would show you this city.”

And Will said, “Then show me.”

They walked the streets together; it was early December, and winter was setting in. In their thick coats, they didn’t look much different from anybody else. They stood before the Duomo, they walked on cobblestone streets, and finally Hannibal took Will to the Uffizi Gallery.

“Art,” Will said, and he thought of all of Hannibal’s tableaus, so masterfully crafted, each component effortless artistic.

“Art,” Hannibal agreed.

The museum was crowded, but not packed as it would be during tourist season. They picked their way through the crowd until they stood before the Primavera, and Will looked at it and saw.

Will turned to Hannibal. Hannibal’s face was inscrutable, but Will had spent almost a year at Hannibal’s side, and he could read the messages in the crease of his eyes and the turn of his mouth. He had always been capable of seeing, and now he looked and saw.

New beginnings.

Spring had come again.

That evening, Hannibal cradled Will’s skull in his hands, and Will’s hands clutched back, the same hands that held a knife and would use to kill Hannibal when the time came.

* * *

Hannibal believed that Will could win it all; he had sought Will out in the throes of potential retirement to drag him here, to Florence, to the Grand Prix Final, because he knew that Will was capable of greatness, and he would bring him there, one way or another.

It was lucky that Will had been amenable, instead of fighting him every step of the way.

But then again, Will had been competing for years. He had been top of the field, one of the best serial murders. It wasn’t a small feat to make it to the Grand Prix Final, and the field was deep with talent.

But they were here now; here in Florence; here at the finals, and Will was standing in center stage, eyes closed, the crowd hushed, the judges watching.

Hannibal was standing at the side, watching.

“With my hands,” Will mouthed, soundless.

And then his eyes opened, and when he moved, he was standing in an endless stream of blood.

* * *

As infuriating as Freddie Lounds was, she was persistent, and that meant that it was her microphone held before Hannibal and Will as they dealt with the press after the Finals.

“So, what are your plans now?”

Will’s mouth was pressed flat as he stared back at Freddie. “Dogs,” he finally said. The medal gleamed around his neck—the gold caught the light and flashed into her eyes.

Hannibal glanced at Will. A victory was all well and good, but Will was capable of so much more.

Will’s eyes were dark, and finally, he said, “There’s Nationals. Four Continents. Worlds.”

And afterwards, it would be spring. The time of new beginnings.

“After that…” His mouth twisted, and his hand pressed against Hannibal’s, warm and calloused and promising violence. “Well, there’s always Pairs.”

And Hannibal pressed his hand back, promising violence in return, and said, calmly, “You’ll need a partner for pairs competition.”

And Will looked at him and said, “I have a partner.”

* * *

Spring came, with a flurry of eager tail wags and soft noses pressing into open palms, and as the sky cleared, Will stepped forward toward Hannibal and their hands found each other as they moved as one.

The new season was awaiting them, not as individuals anymore, but as a pair.

**Author's Note:**

> and then as a pairs team they murder francis together and it's beautiful.
> 
> thanks to ellie for keeping me from titling this fic "competitive serial murdering" which you know, is evocative, but not quite what i was going for, and also for everything that they do for me, all the time.
> 
> ❤️ Enjoyed it? Try the following options:
> 
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